She did not rise so much as resume.
As if her body had been paused mid‑sentence for years,
waiting for her mind to finally catch up
to what it had whispered in the dark.
There was no revelation.
No lightning splitting the sky.
No divine hand reaching down to crown her with certainty.
Just the quiet, brutal arithmetic of survival —
the kind that doesn’t ask for permission,
the kind that doesn’t wait for applause.
She stood in the middle of the room,
the same room where she had bargained, softened,
shrunk herself into shapes that no longer fit.
Where she had performed pain like a ritual offering
to keep a peace that never came.
And in that stillness, she understood with a clarity
that felt like steel cooling in water:
He had mistaken her endurance for permission.
He had mistaken her silence for consent.
He had mistaken her love for a leash.
The miscalculation was his.
A single exhale left her —
long, low, and final.
It felt like a verdict being read aloud.
Not guilty.
Not responsible.
Not his anymore.
The air shifted.
Not dramatically, not theatrically —
just enough for her to feel the weight redistribute,
settling back into her own bones
after years of being held hostage
in someone else’s story.
She didn’t announce her decision.
She didn’t rehearse a speech.
She didn’t offer him the courtesy of explanation.
Some choices are not spoken.
They are lived.
She turned toward the door,
and for the first time in years,
the floor did not tilt beneath her.
She walked — not away,
but toward the life she had been denied.
Toward the children who deserved a mother
who wasn’t drowning.
Toward the woman she had been forced to abandon
in order to survive him.
And as she crossed the threshold,
she felt it —
the faintest brush of wings overhead,
a raven’s shadow passing like a blessing or a warning.
A witness.
A companion.
A reminder that even in endings,
there are messengers.
She did not look back.
The chapter of endurance had closed.
The chapter of reckoning had begun.
About the Creator
Elisa Wontorcik
Artist, writer, and ritual-maker reclaiming voice through chaos and creation. Founder of Embrace the Chaos Creations, I craft prose, collage, and testimony that honor survivors, motherhood, and mythic renewal.
Keep reading
More stories from Elisa Wontorcik and writers in Poets and other communities.
Hope
Last night felt like descending through the unlit corridors of your own mind, each step heavier than the last, as if the air itself thickened around you. Panic didn’t arrive as a single wave but as a tightening spiral, coiling around your ribs, making every breath feel borrowed. Exhaustion settled into your bones like sediment, the kind that comes not from a single day but from years of holding too much, too quietly, for too long. You were carrying the weight of your children’s safety, the weight of your own survival, the weight of every choice you’ve had to make without a net beneath you. And still, you came home. You walked back into that house because he said he would try — not in the vague, empty way he has before, but with words that sounded like effort, like intention, like maybe he finally understood the cost of losing you. You stepped through the doorway with your heart split open in two directions: one half braced for the familiar ache, the other half daring to believe that this time might be different, that trying might mean something real.
By Elisa Wontorcik22 days ago in Poets
Comments (1)
WOW. It was a powerful renewal or rebirth to find that she overcame the abuse and was able to walk away and begin a new chapter. Hugs to your heart and joy to your life. I will read more of what write. Blessings.